A Murder for the Books

by Victoria Gilbert

  I kicked some pea gravel with the toe of my sneaker. “The type of people you want? What does that mean?”

  “People who can afford the best, of course. Educated people with good jobs in the city. People who can really contribute something to the town.”

  “People with money, you mean.”

  “Well, yes. Because those are the people who can support the things Taylorsford needs. Like the library.” Sylvia cast me a pointed glare. “People more like our ancestors, if I’m honest.”

  “Oh, lumber barons? Not too many of those left.”

  Aunt Lydia dropped the daylily flower and gripped my wrist. “Now Amy, you know what Sylvia means.”

  “Yeah, I think I do.” I eyed Sylvia with distaste. “She means people who can afford the rents she wants to charge for those buildings she owns in town. Driving out other people, like Bethany Virts, who can’t.”

  “Speaking of Bethany Virts, I hope she’s doing okay,” Aunt Lydia said after squeezing my wrist rather hard. “Poor thing, losing her mother in such a fashion.”

  “A tragedy.” Sylvia turned her cool gaze on me. “I understand you’re the one who found the body. That must have been a shock.”

  I pulled free of Aunt Lydia’s grasp. “Yes, it was.”

  “But I heard that you didn’t see anything more? I mean, nothing that would help lead to the perpetrator? That’s a shame.”

  “No, Richard and I just stumbled over the body. We didn’t see anything else.”

  Sylvia’s eyes were clear and cold as an icicle, and her gaze as sharp. “It’s probably for the best. If you had seen the murderer, you might have been placed in danger as well.”

  I hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. I shivered. “I guess.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff’s department and other investigators will find the monster who did this,” Aunt Lydia said. “They always do.”

  “Not always. But I wouldn’t worry. I agree with Don Virts—it was probably some vagrant passing through. High on meth or moonshine or some such thing. Maybe he’d broken into the archives to sleep off a binge, and Doris walked in on him, and”—Sylvia spread out her hands—“he was startled and attacked her. You know how those people can turn violent for no reason.”

  It was a clever hypothesis, I had to give her that. But also a good cover for a different type of murderer. I wondered if she or Don had come up with it and, if so, why Sylvia was willing to spread his theory. I wasn’t aware they were friends.

  But Don had money, and Sylvia was always seeking investors for her various real estate dealings. So there was one likely connection.

  Or maybe they were joint investors in Bob Blackstone’s pet project. I studied Sylvia’s haughty face, which was surprisingly devoid of lines. No doubt she’d indulged in a bit of plastic surgery or Botox. Chasing youth the way she chased money.

  Aunt Lydia looked thoughtful. “Maybe. That might explain it, because it certainly doesn’t make sense otherwise. Doris Virts had no enemies as far as I know. And it’s not like her children would kill her for their inheritance, because there isn’t any.”

  Sylvia nodded. “That’s why Don’s theory seems sensible. Which means we may never know who did it. But if that’s the case, hopefully they’ve fled and won’t return.”

  “Speaking of returning to Taylorsford, I found out something interesting from Richard just the other day.” I turned to Aunt Lydia. “Remember that boy who lived with Paul Dassin for several years? You said his name was Karl Klass, right?”

  “Yes.” My aunt’s fingers caressed her pearls again. “What of him?”

  “He did come back. Or at least someone claiming to be him contacted Richard to set up a meeting. Richard’s a little worried he might be angling for a piece of Paul’s estate, so he asked me to accompany him on his visit. To have a witness to whatever’s said, I guess.”

  My aunt flinched as if she’d been stung by that bee. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Don’t worry. It can’t be anything that shady. Even if the guy has a different name now, he’s quite respectable. In fact, it seems he moves in the highest social circles.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Karl,” Aunt Lydia said. “He was always so rough around the edges.”

  “Apparently he smoothed them out. Seriously, you’ll never guess who it is.”

  “Kurt Kendrick.” Sylvia’s eyes sparkled with the obvious pleasure she took in divulging this information.

  Aunt Lydia yanked on her necklace so hard the clasp sprung open, leaving the strand of pearls dangling from her fingers. “Surely not.” She shoved the jewelry into her dress pocket and shot Sylvia a sharp glance. “And even if so, how did you know anything about this?”

  Sylvia swept her hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I’ve been to a few of his parties. We share some mutual friends. But I didn’t want to blow his cover since it seemed he wasn’t interested in being remembered in Taylorsford. Not as Karl Klass, anyway. But now that he’s contacted Dassin’s great-nephew, I suppose he’s decided to reveal the truth at last.” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you would’ve recognized him from that photo in the paper, Lydia. I realize he’s in his early seventies now, but he still looks like he could man a longboat. The Viking. Remember, that was his nickname?”

  “Yes, because he was so tall and broad-shouldered and fair.”

  “And still is, although his hair is white now, instead of blond. But those blue eyes are just as striking as ever.” Sylvia patted her lacquered hair. “I was only six when he took off for parts unknown, but I remember being dazzled even then.”

  Aunt Lydia sniffed. “He was a hooligan. Dragged Andrew into all sorts of trouble.”

  “So you should be glad he disappeared when he did. For Andrew’s sake, I mean.”

  “No, because it hurt Andrew and broke poor Paul’s heart.” Aunt Lydia glanced at me. “Karl just took off when he was eighteen. Never contacted Paul or Andrew or anyone in Taylorsford again, as far as I know. Paul could never locate him, no matter how hard he tried. Karl just vanished. I think Paul always worried that he was dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “People always did seem to disappear on Paul Dassin. Not the luckiest individual, was he?” Sylvia turned to look at the back of the house. “I think you need a paint job on the trim, Lydia.”

  I assumed that was the end of the talk about Karl Klass or Kurt Kendrick or whoever he was, at least as far as Sylvia was concerned. I wanted to ask more questions, but one look at my aunt’s tense face locked my lips. Anyway, I knew I’d have a chance to learn more about Taylorsford’s prodigal son soon.

  Sylvia lifted her sharp chin. “You don’t want to let that go too long. I have some professionals I could recommend.”

  Aunt Lydia shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Thanks, but I don’t know when we’ll be able to afford a full paint job. Not a cheap proposition.”

  “No.” Sylvia focused her gaze back on my aunt. “You know, if it ever becomes too much of a burden, my offer to buy the place still stands.”

  There it was. The real reason for her visit. “I don’t think Aunt Lydia is interested in selling—ever,” I said forcefully.

  “I just hate to see the family home fall into disrepair.” Sylvia patted her short hair with one hand. It didn’t move, which verified my suspicion that it had been heavily lacquered with hairspray. “And it’s much too large for one person to rattle around in.”

  Said the woman who owned multiple large homes.

  “Two,” I said. “Two people.”

  Sylvia’s aristocratic nose twitched as she looked me up and down. “Ah, yes, two. But you won’t live here forever, will you? I imagine you’ll eventually marry, or move in with someone, or whatever it is you young people do these days.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “You never married, or . . . whatever.”

  Sylvia stared at me like I had just burped in public. Or worse. “Well, I suppose I should be running along. Thank
you for allowing me to see the garden, Lydia. And don’t let me keep you from your weeding, Amy. Seems like a rather messy task to me, but I suppose you probably enjoy that.” Her gaze ranged over my ragged ensemble. She sniffed before turning away and walking to her car.

  “That was a bit rude,” Aunt Lydia observed as the sedan backed out of the driveway.

  “Who? Me or her?”

  “Both,” said my aunt, but she grinned. “Don’t worry. You can’t say anything to Sylvia that I haven’t already considered. She’s always been a bit of a pain. Obsessed with the family heritage, you know. That’s really why she wants the house, not because she wants to live here. She’d probably renovate it into some froufrou monstrosity and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Called ‘Baker House,’ to perpetuate and glorify the family name?”

  “Yes, which is not my name or yours. So I guess she thinks she has more of a right to everything connected to it.” Aunt Lydia shaded her eyes with one hand and stared at the back of the house. “The trim does need painting. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ever sell this place to Sylvia Baker. I’d let it tumble down before that.”

  “It won’t. We’ll take care of it.”

  Aunt Lydia smiled. “Of course we will. Now don’t work too long in this heat.” She patted my arm. “I’m going in, but I’ll bring you some water here in a minute. You look far too flushed.” She turned away but glanced over her shoulder and gave me a wink before heading toward the back porch. “Unless that’s simply the residual blush from spending time with our new neighbor.”

  I swore loudly, but Aunt Lydia just laughed and disappeared into the house.

  Chapter Nine

  The following Saturday, I almost made it out of the house without Aunt Lydia cornering me. Almost.

  “I see you managed to dress up a bit for your visit with Karl,” she said as she stood between me and the front door.

  I glanced down at my black linen slacks and copper-colored silk blouse. “I have to work today too, you know.”

  Aunt Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure, because you wear outfits like that to the library every day.”

  I inched my way to the left, hoping I could slide by her and reach the door. “Are you saying I don’t dress well enough for my job?”

  “No, but you don’t usually wear your best blouse or heels.”

  “Not that high, though,” I replied, lifting my foot slightly to show off the kitten heel on my shoe. “And okay—I do think a visit to Kurt Kendrick’s estate requires a little more dash than my usual style.”

  Aunt Lydia dropped her arms to her sides, her fingers still clenched tight. “I don’t like it, Amy.”

  “So you’ve said. More than once.”

  “And yet you still don’t want to listen, do you?”

  “Look, I know you don’t approve of Kendrick, or Karl Klass, as you call him. But Richard is going to be with me the entire time. And I really do want to see that house and the art . . .”

  Aunt Lydia turned aside to stare at one of Uncle Andrew’s paintings. “An art dealer and collector. Not the sort of thing I would’ve ever pictured as Karl’s career.”

  I stepped up beside her. “He wasn’t interested in art when he was young?”

  “Not that I could tell. Andrew was, of course. He always loved to sketch and paint. But Karl never expressed any interest in it, at least not in my presence. Of course, I wasn’t around him that much.”

  “Just enough to know that you didn’t like him.” I laid my fingers on her arm and squeezed, forcing her to look at me.

  Aunt Lydia shrugged off my hand. “He was a wild child. So handsome, and he knew it. Very smart, according to Paul, but he didn’t bother to apply himself at school. I guess I shouldn’t judge him since most of what I know about him is hearsay. But I do. He was a bad influence on Andrew. Convinced him to skip school and blow off his homework and heaven knows what else. Also, there were the drugs.”

  “Weren’t a lot of kids into drugs back then?” I fiddled with the gold bangle encircling my wrist.

  “Yes, but not a lot of them dealt drugs.”

  “Oh.” I considered this information in light of Kurt Kendrick’s later wealth. “You think he made his fortune that way, don’t you?”

  “I do. I mean, it only makes sense. He ran off when he was eighteen, the day after he graduated from high school. Just barely graduated too, from what Andrew told me. Anyway, Karl had no money, no college degree, and no real skills. Other than his looks and charm and, I guess, his shrewd mind. So my speculation is that he continued and expanded his career as a drug dealer. How else could he have accumulated enough wealth to get into the art game? That usually takes a big investment at the start.”

  “Maybe so, but he could’ve gone straight after only a few years. I mean, once he made enough cash to get into dealing art instead of drugs. He’s in his early seventies now. He might have shaken off any criminal connections years and years ago.”

  Aunt Lydia touched the gilt frame on one of the paintings. “Perhaps.”

  “And he may have never been involved in anything illegal. You don’t know for sure that he was.”

  Aunt Lydia slid her hand around the frame until her fingers came to rest on a small bronze plaque bearing the name “Andrew Talbot.” “No, I don’t. Not for certain. But I know he sold a wide variety of illegal substances when he was a teenager. It just seems like a logical leap to imagine him continuing in that trade, at least until he was rich enough to leave it behind.”

  “Andrew told you that?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Lydia cast me a quick glance. “He had a problem, you see, off and on. Nothing that was obvious to others, but of course I knew.” She looked back at the painting, lines furrowing her forehead. “It was Karl who introduced Andrew to drugs. I don’t care what else he’s done in his life or who he’s become. I will never forgive him for that.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to become his friend, trust me. I’m really doing this so I can see the inside of that house and the artworks. Also as a favor to Richard.”

  Aunt Lydia’s face brightened. “Yes, that will be nice. You two can get to know each other a little better.”

  I held up my hand. “No matchmaking. This isn’t a date, and I don’t see things going in that direction. But I do want us to be friends.”

  “Of course,” my aunt said, looking me over again. “But it is a very nice outfit. Shows you off to your best advantage. And you never know . . .”

  “Enough,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Now I’d better go, or I’ll be late for work.”

  “All right,” Aunt Lydia said as she followed me to the front door. “But maybe suggest stopping after your visit for a bite to eat or something? Tell Richard I haven’t been to the store, and there’s not much in the house . . .”

  “Bye, see you later.” I stepped onto the porch and closed the door while she was still making suggestions as to how I should entice Richard to take me to dinner.

  * * *

  Richard did check me out when I walked to his car after locking up the library later that day. His appraising gaze swept from my head to my feet and back again.

  “Hello,” he said as he jumped out of his vehicle. “Nice of you to match your outfit to my car.” He grinned as opened the passenger-side door of his copper-colored sedan. “Ready to meet the elusive Mr. Kendrick?”

  “I guess. Ready to take a good look at his house, anyway.” I lifted my right foot onto my left knee and slipped off my shoe so I could massage my toes. “Sorry, long day on my feet in these things. I usually wear flats.”

  “No worries.” Richard slid back into the driver’s seat and gave me a smile. “I know all about aching feet, trust me.”

  “I bet you do.” I cast him a quick glance as I fastened my seat belt. “At least you never had to wear toe shoes like the poor ballerinas. That must be torture.”

  “No, never had to do that, and yes, from what I hear, it is.”

  “I
’ve read stories about it. How their feet bleed and all that.” I stared out the window as Richard pulled into the street. “It looks so beautiful when they dance, but it must be painful.”

  “I don’t have to deal with female dancers who have that issue, thankfully.”

  I turned my head to study his profile while he kept his eyes focused on the road. “Oh? Do you only work with contemporary dancers? You specialize in modern dance, I know, but I bet you studied ballet at some point.”

  “Of course. I even still take some classes from time to time. It’s good training. But I perform and choreograph contemporary dance, so ballet is never my main focus.”

  “And you teach only contemporary?”

  “Definitely. Not skilled enough in ballet to teach that to anyone. Well, I suppose I could handle the basics, but I think it’s best to leave the real training to the specialists.” Richard lifted his right hand off the steering wheel to fiddle with some controls on the dashboard. “I also occasionally teach jazz dance classes or even a bit of show dance. You know, Broadway-type stuff. I’ve dabbled in that in the past.”

  “You’ve danced in some shows?”

  “Yeah. Not my favorite thing. I mean, the dancing is fine, and some of the choreography is fantastic, but it’s the same thing night after night. Not the way I like to work. But after I left my first company job, I had to pay the rent somehow.” He flashed me a smile and flexed his arm. “I had a few offers, but I didn’t want to be reduced to being supported by some sugar momma.”

  I blinked and plucked at my blouse, which suddenly felt like it was plastered against my skin.

  “Is it too hot in here for you, or is the temp okay?” Richard pointed at the dashboard. “I can turn down the AC if you want.”

  “It’s fine,” I replied, turning my head toward the side window. “Oh, look, there’s the road you mentioned in your text. Where Kendrick lives, I mean.”

  “I think it’s still quite a ways up the mountain, but yeah.” Richard turned the car onto the narrow gravel lane.